


I Saw He Had Silk Woven Into His Hair

by Bloodsbane



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (of a sort), Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Asexual Character, Canon typical body horror, Consensual Manipulation From Afar, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Grooming, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Power Swap, Spiders & Tarantulas, The Desolation, The Filth - Freeform, The Web - Freeform, Web Jonathan Sims, Web Martin Blackwood, an unholy union between multiple fear entities in the form of one jon sims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-22 01:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22340341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/pseuds/Bloodsbane
Summary: The Web makes Martin an offer. Jon follows. Their lives change -- who can say for better or for worse. At least they're changing together.--web!Martin and web!Jon AU, from Jon's perspective. shifts away from canon somewhere in s4 and takes place a few years after they escape The Eye.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 20
Kudos: 203





	1. Running Errands

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be based off [a couple designs I did for web!Martin and web!Jon on my tumblr](https://lo-fi-charm.tumblr.com/post/190210161043/ohhh-these-were-fun-to-do-especially-thinking)! I got to thinking about if/why/how Jon could possibly (willingly) tie himself to The Web, and it was interesting to consider, so I wanted to write a few things in the AU where it happens. 
> 
> This should be relatively short, only three chapters, exploring what Jon does and his relationship with Martin as they are now. And this is mostly just for fun, so don't worry over details much I guess! I'm sure not gonna, hehe 
> 
> Please enjoy~ 
> 
> \---  
> warnings for this chapter:
> 
> > at least two spiders  
> > light descriptions of weird eye nonsense/body horror  
> > parasites (aka the filth cameo)

**  
** When Jon goes, he wears a three-piece suit. It's tailored to him: black, sleek, with the faintest pop of something almost blue to act as company; faded tie, subtle handkerchief; a bow, sometimes, when they were feeling cheeky. Blue isn't really _his_ color, Martin said, but that was fine. It was _Martin's_ favorite, and really that was the point. **  
**

When Martin brings him to where he needs to go, Jon looks his best -- always. Freshly polished shoes; dark hair pulled back, with strands of silver (but not only silver), caught at the nape of his neck with a ribbon. Nails painted, shirt freshly pressed, all of him clean, sorted out, _taken care of._

(He thinks of before, when Georgie would sometimes choose his outfits when they went out. A cool band shirt for a concert, nice jeans for dinner. Jon hadn't minded, or at least rolled over without much of a fight. He doesn't like to think about Georgie, though.

So he thinks about Martin instead, fixing the knot of his tie with Jon's hands. Jon feels the fabric twist under his fingers, the subtle nudging, pulling, twisting. He likes the way his hands linger, smoothing the tie down, down, until it rests on his stomach. Then one comes up again, and his lips touch the inside of his wrist.)

* * *

Today, Jon is at a tall, elegant building in the city. Many men with suits walk in, briefcases at the ready. Jon is taken in. No one gives him a second glance. He belongs here. 

The elevator is nearly empty, with only two other men standing near the back. Jon does not look at them; he can’t; he wouldn’t care to anyway. His hand presses a button and Jon waits. 

When the doors open, Jon steps out first and turns left. He walks down to the end of the hall. The carpet renders him silent. It’s an ugly orange and yellow thing, where the yellow twists like a snake into itself, weaving up and down the hallway, reminding Jon of things he’d rather forget. His gaze is drawn up to focus on a door. Room 109. 

Jon knocks. He waits. Part of him begins to grow tense. This is always it -- the part where his body feels all at once too stiff and too unwieldy. Taught and ready to snap. Loose, about to slip. Jon takes a deep breath and attempts to move his hand into his hair. Instead, it drifts to the door. He knocks again. Three times, no longer than before, no more aggressively than before. Then the tips of his fingers very briefly touch the corner of his mouth. Just for a moment. Jon waits, and he is no longer tense. 

The man who answers the door is unimportant, but Jon looks him in the eye and Knows all at once why he is here. Jon’s voice is calm and friendly in the least genuine way as he introduces himself as Mr. Blackwood, as he says he has a message, as he pulls the envelope from his suit pocket and holds it out to the man. 

His name is not important, but Jon knows it all the same: Victor Cylus is written in elegant black script on the envelope, just below the stamp. Mr. Cylus recognizes the stamp. He goes pale. He doesn’t want to take the envelope, but Jon will not spare him. With a gentle twitch from the finger of his free hand, he helps Mr. Cylus along. Those large fingers are shaking when he grabs the paper, thick and heavy with his fate, sealed by black wax, stamped by an eye with odd lashes. Jon helps him accept the burden of it, makes sure it sticks to the whorls of his fingerprints. Then he says, simply, “Good luck with your next meeting, Mr. Cylus,” and turns to leave. 

The man is furious, but it doesn’t matter; he can’t do anything. He is frozen by the knowledge of silk. He has been caught in a web not his own, for the first time in his life, and there is no way to stop what is coming. What balances atop those threads, teasing him with vibrations that promise only what he himself has bestowed. That’s reason enough, Jon muses spitefully, to be afraid. 

.

.

.

Martin brings him to a park next. Jon is a bit more conspicuous here, but no one seems to care overmuch. He watches couples weave their way along the well-worn trails while children defy the known, running through wild weeds and tall grass. Jon breathes more easily when he’s taken beyond that section of the park. 

This one is easier. Jon gets the idea once he steps off the trail, into a thick clump of trees near the edge of the park. Spider corpses are strewn amongst the leaf litter. Even now, Jon holds little love for them, but things have changed (so many things have changed), and he hates the worms more. 

They’re long, spongey, coiling things, bursting from the spiders’ abdomens, spilling into the dirt and mud. Some were dead, but most were alive, writhing and gathering in a small pool of rainwater. Dead spiders were piled along the rim like rocks on the shore of a lake, broken open, spilling orange parasites and viscera into the mix. 

A deep hatred (and lingering fear) that is not Jon’s propels him. Jon opens two of his true eyes just enough to keep the worms in his sights as he works. Weaving his silk into the surrounding trees is easy enough. So, too, is pulling the spider from the dark empty pit of his pupil. It is fat and streaked with scarlet and he sets it down near the pool to let the thing do its work. It is not like the corpses gathered, which it gleefully consumes in a way spiders should not consume things. Jon leaves it there, knowing it will grow and it will continue to eat, and soon the touch of Filth will be gone. 

.

.

. 

There is one last errand to run before Jon is able to return home. Walking briskly, Jon makes his way through town. It’s a busy hour, commuters making their weary way home as the sun sets. 

Jon turns a corner and is just as surprised as the person he collides with, both of them shouting and tumbling in an ungraceful heap onto the ground. It sends a ripple in the cloud of civilians nearby; some of them gasp and hover, some of them startle and stare with curiosity, some simply step around the mess and continue on their way. Jon feels a flare of annoyance at their inability to actually _do_ anything.

“I’m so- so sorry!” says the one he ran into. They’re young, maybe only twenty years old, with short hair so blond it’s nearly white. As they sit up, they despair at the sight of their satchel spilled over, covering the sidewalk with papers and books. “God, no!”

As they frantically leap after papers, Jon gets to his knees and says, “Pardon me! Are you quite alright?” 

“I’m- sure, yes! Just, uh, just, the papers! I need these for work-”

“Oh, let me help you then-”

Jon catches some of the papers with his hands; some, he catches with his silk, keeping them from blowing up the street until he can grab them. The crowd has now disappeared, fulfilling every expectation of Jon’s as no one offers assistance in wrangling the paperwork. 

There’s a grateful smile waiting for him when Jon hands a stack of papers back. For just a moment, Jon thinks he recognizes the person. Something about their face- about their eyes-

As they speak, offering some form of thanks before clumsily stuffing the papers into their satchel, Jon’s hand reaches behind him. Fingertips wrap around a slim book. Jon does not know what he says in response, merely makes a show of turning his back to collect the last of the books while slipping that one into his suit. 

His companion does not notice the missing book. They thank him again, apologize again, and Jon offers a smile and shakes their hand without thinking. He feels something skitter up his arm, his finger, his nail, disappearing beneath their sleeve. Watching them go, he works against the desire to feel guilty and quickly disappears into London’s busy evening. 

When Jon has a chance to inspect the book, his budding suspicions are confirmed. The bookplate tells him all he needs to know. It appears safe to carry in his suit pocket, so Jon leaves it there as he heads home. 


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is sitting in his usual spot, eyes closed, legs crossed, wearing only a pair of sweatpants. In his lap is a half-finished shawl and a tarantula. A thick coil of thread is manipulated by his needles, woven into the design, spooling with ease from the cavity in his chest where his heart would be. Once was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter: 
> 
> > tarantulas!   
> > slight body horror  
> > allusions to eye-related injuries (brief)

Martin is sitting in his usual spot, eyes closed, legs crossed, wearing only a pair of sweatpants. In his lap is a half-finished shawl and a tarantula. A thick coil of thread is manipulated by his needles, woven into the design, spooling with ease from the cavity in his chest where his heart would be. Once was. **  
**

“Hey there,” Martin says, and his voice is so relaxed and happy that Jon feels every once of tension fade from his body. He strides over to his husband and wastes no time falling to his knees to claim a kiss. Martin laughs into his mouth. His eyes stay closed. His hands do not stop weaving. “Hard day?” he breathes, amusement in his voice.

“Not so difficult,” Jon replies, just as breathy, as if exhausted despite his claims. He eyes the tarantula on Martin’s right thigh. “Hello, Tim.”

The creature waves its pedipalps at him. Jon settles beside Martin on the blanket and leans over to inspect the cavity. “Is Sasha in there?”

“Yes. She’s been making more silk for me.”

“Reliable as always.”

It’s unexpectedly easier, with the tarantulas. They aren’t like other spiders -- no need for webs, for lying in wait, for inconspicuousness. Yes, they’re larger, but at least that makes them easier to spot and to identify, to _know_. When Sasha peeks from her burrow, nestled safely behind Martin’s ribs, Jon is honestly glad to see her. He offers her a greeting and she, too, waves back at him. 

“That’s enough for today,” Martin says, slowing his work. Jon leaves him to it, walking into the sitting room. They don’t eat food anymore, not really, but tea is always nice. Jon starts making a pot while Martin sets aside his work. The shawl, only half-complete, is carefully tucked away. Though it had been pure white when he arrived, Jon knows the color is already shifting. Red then brown, he predicts, then maybe something yellow. Not the prettiest, but, well. Their work isn’t often pretty. 

Martin has a shirt on by the time Jon pours them both a cup. They sit together on the couch, Jon with his legs draped across Martin’s lap. He pulls the book from his jacket with his free hand and asks, “What are we doing with this?”

“Oh, I nearly forgot about it,” Martin responds brightly. He leans over to set his tea down before taking it from his husband. It’s a thin leather volume with slick white writing on the front in a language Jon can’t comprehend - the characters look _almost_ like English, only not quite. It’s like the shiny foil of a card, shifting the image as his gaze travels across them. Jon wonders idly if he would have been able to understand it before the spiders took his other eye. There’s no use in dwelling on the idea. He leans back and sips his tea as Martin flips the thing open, inspecting a specific page. “There we go.”

“Does it have to be read?”

“Yeah. We won’t be using it, though. Just going to drop it off somewhere in a few months.” 

“Ah.”

Martin offers a gentle smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep it in my room for now. How was today? Did you feel alright?”

Jon frowned around his mug. “I already said it was fine.”

“You said it wasn’t difficult, which is good, but not anything about how you were feeling. C’mon now.” 

This part still isn’t easy. Jon couldn’t really understand why. It was stupid, really -- he’d done so much with Martin already. They’d been doing this together for more than two years already. So why was admitting to the ever-present strain of their arrangement still so difficult? There was no use in trying to hide it, trying to deny it. Martin would always know, even if they hadn’t gotten married; even if he had never known the touch of the spiders. 

“I feel… mostly at ease,” Jon admits, his voice even and slow. He wants to be honest, even if lying is impossible, even if Martin already knows. Jon thinks of that moment in front of Victor Cylus’ door, when he’d attempted to stray, to tug against the strings which sought to guide him. He’d wanted to feel that resistance; he’d wanted Martin to course-correct for him. Jon finishes his tea and tells himself this is the same thing. “It’s not so bad, some days. I try not to let myself think on it too hard- It’s difficult, that, but I’m getting better. I think.”

“You are.” 

It’s faint praise, but earnest, and Jon feels silly for how much it makes him feel better. “Working with the spiders is easier now…” Jon pauses here. He’s curious; he wants to ask a question. Several, actually. Instead he says, “That spot of Corruption I found was disgusting.”

Martin grimaces. “Oh yes, that. It was overstepping, obviously. The spider you left behind will take good care of them.”

“Is it going to… eat them?”

“Mmhm!” Martin drinks some tea. “We’ll be going back for that one in a week or so.”

“It’s going to be bigger, isn’t it?”

“Jon, I thought you liked big spiders?” Martin teases. 

“Tarantulas are different,” Jon insists, waving a hand dismissively. He moves onto his next point, “The one I ran into on the street; Institute employee?”

“Yes.”

“And the spider is surveillance, I presume.” 

“You presume correctly.” 

That helps him relax a bit more. He’d been concerned when the thing had skittered up his arm, disappearing into the other’s sleeve. “Nothing to be worried over, I hope.”

“Not for you.” Here, Martin purses his lips. “There are other things to worry about, actually.”

Jon sits up a little straighter, and Martin guides his legs off his lap onto the floor. Martin has always been a little difficult to read, though Jon has been getting better at it lately. Now, though, he’s unsure of his husband’s expression. There’s something like concern and something else, almost like guilt, weighing on his shoulders. Martin takes a deep breath and says, “Jon, you’ll be going out again tomorrow, and… This next task- It’s going to be a bit difficult.”

“...Difficult.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me how?”

“No. I can’t- I really can’t. I think- We- _I_ think that you’ll be better off not knowing.” 

His hand is warm against Jon’s. Martin’s always had larger hands than Jon, and even now, they remain warm somehow, heavy and comforting against Jon’s skin. Martin’s thumb runs along some of the old scars in comforting circles. “I’m going to need you to trust me on this one,” Martin says. His voice is very serious, but not lacking in affection. Jon realizes he’s very worried over Jon’s reaction to this new job. 

“Of course I trust you,” he says, but Martin only shakes his head and holds him tighter. “Martin-”

“It’s going to- You might- I just need you to remember,” Martin stammers, “that I’m with you the whole time, and I’d never… You know I’d never make you…” 

“Martin.”

His husband falters, falling silent for a minute. Jon tries not to overthink. He forces himself not to begin speculating, to ignore the paranoia beginning to buzz somewhere behind his left eye, making it itch. Instead he leans in closer to Martin, putting his head on the man’s shoulder. Martin’s hand comes up to thread fingers into Jon’s long hair. 

“When it’s over,” Martin says, his voice almost a whisper, “come straight home, and I’ll take care of you. Alright? Don’t think- Just come home. I’ll help you, if you need it. I’ll bring you home.” 

“Okay.”

“I promise it will be fine.”

“Okay. I believe you, Martin. I trust you.” 

Martin’s grip on his hand is so tight it almost hurts. Jon feels an empty breath in his hair, then Martin’s lips touch his temple. “Thank you.”

Jon manages a smile and closes his eyes, holding Martin’s hand just as tightly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was originally going to be much longer, but I decided to cut it into halves. So there'll be at least four chapters now!


	3. A Difficult Task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait on this one! 
> 
> \---
> 
> warnings for this chapter (please heed them!): 
> 
> > more spiders  
> > canon-typical entities being awful   
> > brief descriptions of 2nd degree burns  
> > implied/referenced/"off screen" child abuse  
> >>> a child is stalked, threatened, injured, and manipulated by Jon's Web abilities

Martin dresses him that morning, and Jon knows it's going to be a hard day. **  
**

The outfit is much more casual than he's used to these days: nice jeans, a plain white dress shirt, solid black tie. Unassuming. Martin does not tie his hair back, letting it flow down Jon's shoulders.

Sasha waves her legs toward Jon as Martin stands back, considering. Jon holds out both hands, letting her crawl from the cavity in Martin's chest; the man huffs. It's the closest Jon will get to laughter or a smile today, he's sure. He takes it, offering Sasha an uneasy smile as she tries to crawl up his arm. 

Eventually, Martin takes her back. Puts her back in her den. Gives Jon a kiss, long and chaste, before he whispers, "I'll take care of you, Jon. I promise."

* * *

Jon is at a playground. He does not want to be here; he should not be here; he has to be here. He wants to leave. He cannot leave.

Exactly one hour ago, Jon was led into the park, brought to a bench, and made to sit down. He’d picked up a book along the way -- he honestly can’t remember when. Had Martin slipped it into his hand on his way out? Had he dipped into a bookstore for his little prop? Jon doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. He’s not reading the book. He doesn’t even know what it is. 

There are children at the playground. Jon can’t stand to look at them for more than a few seconds, but the small handful of glances he’s forced to take tell him that there are five total. He knows in a way he should not that two of them are accompanied by their parents. One has wandered off from a family picnic on the other side of a gentle hill. Another has been brought by a reluctant older brother who has not bothered to check on his sibling for at least twenty solid minutes. The last child is alone. 

The idea that she is Jon’s target is nearly too much to stomach, but something tells him that’s exactly what she is. And too much about her is familiar: the dark skin, the brown eyes, the strange air of wary maturity that should not be worn by a child her age. She’s got a vortex of dark freckles spreading from her collarbone and short, curly hair. The entire time Jon has been here, pretending to read his book, she has not moved from her spot in the sandbox. The grains are brought up into her hands, allowed to seep between her fingers (so small, delicate, god he can’t do this-), then collected again. Jon does not miss the strange discolored skin on her wrists. There’s one small but very purple bruise on her collarbone, ovular, like a thumb print. 

Jon wants to close his eyes, but the left outright refuses, and the right itches when he tries. So he stares at the nothing words in his book and never forgets that he is stalking a child, only pretends that he isn’t. He forces himself not to think about it- to doubt it- no. He doesn’t want to doubt Martin, and he doesn’t, he really doesn’t, but what the hell is he doing here? What in the world could the Mother of Puppets want with a bruised child, alone, lost in the sand? 

One by one, the other children depart, leaving Jon with the girl, and suddenly he’s moving. Jon’s right hand is brought up to his eye. It sneaks beneath his glasses.. He feels something crawl from his pupil and settle on his finger, can feel the whisper-thin thread of silk as it is dragged out of his eye along with the tiny spider. It’s so small he can’t even tell the true color of it. 

Jon thinks about resisting. He wonders, briefly -- just for a moment -- if he’d be able to get up and walk away, if he really wanted to. Could he crush the spider between his thumb and forefinger, get up off the bench, and leave the park? Is it really his choice, to stay, to open his hand so that the wind can lift the spider from his fingertips? He sits still and does not resist, watching that barely-there shimmer of silk in sunlight. The thread flutters across the playground. When the spider lands, there’s a half-second where Jon can see the entire length of it cutting across the playground, a single golden line connecting his hand to the girl’s shoulder, where the spider has settled. He closes his hand around his end of the tether and tries to control his breathing.

Then, finally, someone comes. He’s a man with skin much lighter than the girl, though Jon can see even with a furtive glance that they share a similar nose. Certainly not her father, but perhaps some other sort of relative? He doesn’t like the way the man walks -- too heavy, too slow, like every step is too much effort. Yet he doesn’t stop, not until he is standing behind the girl and saying something to her. She doesn’t look at him right away, but Jon can see the way her entire body freezes up. Sand slips through her tiny fingers. 

The man bends down and grabs her upper arm, and he is not rough, but Jon sees the girl flinch and he wants to move so fucking badly that his entire body actually jolts. Jon realizes he’s being held back; he can feel the suppression of his own kinetic energy, turned terminally potential by an unseen hand. He wants to cry. He wants to scream as he watches the girl leave with that man, his hand clamped on her shoulder, the thumb resting too close to her throat. 

He does nothing.

\---

For another two hours, Jon sits and waits. The connection between himself and the child remains, and through it, Jon can feel the vibrations of information travel back to him. The rumble of a car. The sound of a radio. Sometimes it's her voice -- gentle, soft, rough, like she's reluctant to speak up too much. He can feel the way she fidgets in her seat, little legs crossing and uncrossing at the ankles, hands toying with the teeth of her jacket. 

The man driving does not speak. 

When they get home, the girl goes upstairs to her room. Jon waits. She lays down on her bed and trembles. She is waiting, too, can feel that something is wrong. Is it Jon? Can she sense that something strange is stalking her, has caught her in its web? Or is it something more mundane, though no less awful? Jon honestly can't say which might be worse. 

Around the second hour mark, just as the sun disappears beyond the city skyline and girl's breathing begins to ease, Jon feels… _something_. There is a sound, and the girl jolts awake. Her heart beats fast and hard. Jon can taste her fear, but realizes it is not his to sample; something is happening, and it has nothing to do with him. 

There's a familiar tugging feeling on his left hand. It curls into a fist, with his thumb tucked between his ring and middle fingers. Jon makes himself take a deep breath as he rubs the smooth, cold metal of his wedding ring. 

The strange, unknown _something_ grows in intensity, and with it, the child's fear. Jon can feel her slip off her bed, kneel down -- to hide beneath it? But she hesitates. Gets up and runs to another part of the room. Jon thinks she opens something and steps inside, perhaps into a closet or bathroom. Then she crouches down and is quiet but for her labored breaths, smothered with tiny hands. 

The next few moments are agony. There are vibrations coming though the connection that tell Jon there are loud noises. Someone's anger and fear is rippling through the air like a wave of heat -- no, it _is_ heat, tangible and oppressive and unrelenting, filling every inch of the room. The girl is panting, sweating, yet still she shivers with terror as the yelling continues and the waves of fury grow hotter. 

Jon feels the tiny spider, which had been hiding in a seam on the girl's clothing, begin to move. First it weaves its end of the thread connecting it and Jon into the girl's shirt. Then its tiny legs meet damp skin, and Jon realizes what’s about to happen. "No!" he cries, but it's no use. He is powerless to stop the spider before it bites. 

The girl cries out in surprise and pain, and Jon's heart sinks with dread. Every ounce of fear is shared between them as that wild inferno finds her. She screams. Jon begs aloud, alone, "Please! Please _let_ me-" but it's useless. He cannot get up, nor can he move his hands. His right keeps hold of the thread so tightly it trembles. _Not yet,_ some quiet, cruel voice inside is telling him. Is it his own voice? Is it Martin's? Did it matter? _Not yet._

Agony explodes on her side of the connection, making Jon's muscles tense up. He nearly drops the line as a familiar burning sensation engulfs his right wrist. The memory of fire makes his palm itch. _The Lightless Flame,_ he realizes, and if he wasn't panicking before, there's no chance of finding any sense of calm now.

The spider moves. As the girl struggles and begs and cries, Jon feels it skitter up her arm as if it was his own. The sensation is lessened as it travels from her to the man, and Jon has no time to prepare for what comes next. Just before the fire of the Desolation kills it, the spider bites. 

Jon's head pulses with an scorching heat, like the worst migraine he's ever had. He cries out, doubling over where he sits. Pain and Knowledge throb behind his left eye. _Gregory Flounders, age 34, uncle of Jericka Flounders. Desperate. Terrified. Furious. In terrible pain, from fire in his belly and venom in his hand._ Gregory cries out and the spider is no more than a wisp of ash. 

By the time Jon fights through the pain enough to regain full awareness, his hand is already twisting, rotating at the wrist to wrap up the thread. He jolts upright as soon as he realizes and begins to reel it in with both hands. _Not too quickly,_ he reminds himself, suppressing his own desperate need to get her away. Even with the adrenaline, the fear, the assistance, she is only so big, can only run so far. The thread that both is and isn't there is coiled steadily, around and around. He monitors Jericka's heartbeat and, once she's only a block away, allows her to slow down a bit.

She stumbles into the park, breathing hard. Jon can see the way her body is beginning to shut down from stress and overexertion. As he stands, he pulls her along just a bit more, just far enough so that she falls to her knees in the grass rather than the stone path. 

When Jon stands, there is no resistance. He runs over to Jericka. She's too busy trying to breathe to notice him. He puts a hand to her back; she's soaked through to her jacket with sweat. Very softly, Jon says, "Jericka? Jericka, you're safe now; do you know where you are?"

She finally looks up at him, and Jon recognizes the foggy look in her eyes. It both unsettles and relieves him -- at least the following moments will be much easier on her if she isn't too stressed.

"I'm here to help you, okay Jericka? I'm- a friend, I promise." He hates to lie, especially to children, but at this point he isn't sure what _is_ the truth. There is nothing preventing him from helping her settle down onto her back, though, so Jon only hopes he has free reign for how this particular errand wraps up.

His gaze falls first on her right arm, which bares a mark that is all too familiar. The burn is distinctly hand-shaped, five thick fingers branding her forearm. Jon focuses on that first, gently taking her arm in his hands and inspecting the wound. It’s a terrible mess of charred skin and still-bubbling fat, hot to the touch, but her uncle hadn’t held on long enough for it to burn to her bones. Jon places it carefully on her stomach and reaches up into his hair. He quickly collects silk from his hair, plucking long strands until he has a small handful. He divides them, then flattens each section into a centimeter-long strip. 

While Jon works, he hears Jericka make small noises, like hiccups. When he glances over to check, she’s watching him. Her eyes remain foggy, a lighter brown than they were originally, but something about her gaze seems more alert. “...Who… Who are you…?” she asks, her voice thin and rough from crying. Jon can tell that it hurts to speak, can see it in the way she breathes afterwards, like that single question took all the wind out of her. 

“My name is Jon, and I’m here to help you. I’m going to cover your burn, Jericka.”

“How… h-how…” Jericka’s eyes flutter, and her lip begins to tremble. When she struggles to turn her head and lift her arm, to inspect the wound, Jon reaches over to block her line of sight with one hand. She makes a pitiful sound of protest.

Jon puts as much sweetness as he can into his voice when he says, “There’s no need to look, dear. It’ll only upset you. Jericka, listen -- do you want me to help you sleep? Just for a little bit? I’m going to bandage your arm and then I’m going to take you to the nearest hospital.”

“N-no,” she whines, closing her eyes. Jon can see tears begin to fall down her dark cheeks. “No, no. I don’t want to go to the hospital.” 

“You’re very hurt, Jericka,” Jon responds sympathetically, taking her arm once more. She twitches, but is otherwise still. The venom should be keeping her sedated, but Jon’s a little worried now that it might wear off sooner than expected. He works as quickly as he can while being careful to minimize any pain as he loosely wraps the strips of silk around her wound. It gently adheres to her unblemished skin with no extra help, and soon enough she has a suitable bandage covering her burn. Jon rests the back of his hand against it; there’s still that sickly heat coming through, but it’s not as strong, and he can feel some of the tension leave Jericka’s body. He is still for a moment, letting her relax while he thinks. 

“Don’t wanna go,” Jericka says again, opening her eyes and looking at him. She looks so very lost. She stifles a sob and shakes her head. “I don’t wanna go.” 

Jon thinks a moment before answering. “Where do you want to go, Jericka? Do you have anywhere else to go?”

She doesn’t supply an answer, only cries softly, sluggishly wiping at her eyes with her good hand. When Jon moves to pick her up, she makes a half-hearted grumble of protest, but doesn’t try to fight him. Her arms are tucked against her chest as Jon lifts her, cradling her as carefully as possible.

Getting her to a clinic would be difficult without raising anyone’s suspicions, but Jon doesn’t have to worry on it much. His feet move on their own, and he takes every turn necessary to stay mostly out of sight. It’s dark out, too, which helps -- no one seems to notice Jericka’s condition. If they do, well, Jon must look close enough to related not to raise suspicions. 

Eventually he stands in the shadow of a building half a block away from a clinic. There’s a faint tugging, urging him to set Jericka -- by now half-asleep -- down onto the sidewalk so she can make her way over for help. Yet Jon hesitates, holding her just a bit more securely against him. 

“Jericka? Wake up -- I need to tell you something.”

She mumbles and rubs at her eyes, but gives him her attention. Her round face is still flush, and Jon can feel that her body is warm, maybe a bit too warm. There’s really no excuse to delay medical attention, but he can’t stand the thought of dropping her off with nothing more than his name. 

“I need you to know,” Jon says, fighting to keep his voice gentle and steady, “that none of what happened was your fault. Do you understand? You didn’t do anything wrong, Jericka.”

For a moment she simply stares, wide-eyed, with an expression that is much too serious for a child. When she speaks, her voice is tiny and broken. “Then why?”

Jon can only shake his head. “I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t fair. But you had nothing to do with it, okay? Please understand it wasn’t your fault.” 

It doesn’t look like she does, but there’s nothing else Jon can do for her. He lets her process what he’s said, fingertips gently poking at the edges of her makeshift bandage. While she’s lost in thought, Jon notices the small mark on her neck where the spider bit her. The sick feeling in his stomach is familiar and awful, but he pushes it down. There will be time, later, when he’s home. 

“Alright,” Jon says, “it’s time to go.” 

He sets her down. She’s unsteady, but stays on her feet with some support, both of her hands clutching his as she finds her balance. When she looks up at him, Jon simply nods towards the front of the clinic. She shuffles back and forth on her feet, as if debating something, and Jon gives her an inquiring look while he waits for her to speak. “Are you… coming back?”

“Oh… No, I’m not coming back.”

“Why not?” she asks. She sounds miserable and, strangely, betrayed. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, completely earnest. “I can’t come back. I’m… I’m not…” 

The words drift away, useless and incomplete. Jericka wipes at her eyes and sniffles. Eventually she drops Jon’s hand and pulls up her shirt to wipe at her face. 

Jon can’t help it. He kneels down and pulls her shirt gently from her hands, wiping away her tears and snot with his own sleeve. Once she’s mostly dry, Jon pats her head and says, “Off you go, then. They’ll take good care of you, Jericka, so don’t be afraid. Go on.”

She goes, dragging her feet. Once, she looks back, but Jon knows he’s too deep in the shadows now for her to see. The light of the clinic spills out into the street like a beacon, and he follows her with his eyes until she’s bathed in its warm, safe glow. Someone near the door notices her loitering just outside and swings it open to ask a question. Jericka reaches out and begins to cry; in no time, two more people are there, and she’s swiftly carried into the facility. 

Jon does not linger. He doesn’t know what route he takes; later, he won’t remember how he got home, nor how long it took. His mind is far, far away, lost to the memory of another child caught by the Web. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for breaking the TMA rule of leaving kids out of it... I needed something appropriately unpleasant for Jon to work on. Allow me to assure you that Jericka is well taken care of from here on out (as will be established in the next chapter as well)
> 
> If you're curious about what exactly happened on Jericka's side of things, I plan on writing a spinoff one-shot where she ends up giving her statement on the experience. Not sure when that'll be posted, so keep an eye out! Once it's up, I'll link it here.


	4. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter at last~
> 
> Just a couple tiny warnings:
> 
> > tarantulas  
> > jon is willingly bound and 'gagged'

Jon is barely conscious of himself by the time he’s home. For Martin, this is good. It makes things easier. **  
**

He brings Jon into their apartment and locks the door behind him. He’s already put his shirt back on, his work gently discarded on the other side of the room. The shawl, once stark white fading into muddied brown, has grown into a brilliant array of orange and gold, with small threads of silver glinting amidst their fiery domination. Martin’s eyes had been closed while working on it, but he’d felt the warmth beneath his fingers, the aching heat, had sensed the burn through his connection with Jon. He can’t bear to look at it now, even as he thinks that it is beautiful, even as he feels pride for having woven it so skillfully.

Jon does not register any of this. He merely stands, eyes closed, as Martin directs him to the bathroom. In a very distant way, he can feel Martin undressing him. Shirt buttons first, then cuffs, the whole thing gently untucked and discarded. When Martin’s hands find the zipper of his pants, Jon jolts back to the present and begins hyperventilating. 

“Hush,” Martin directs softly, desperately. “Jon, you’re fine. You’re safe; you’re with me.”

“Jericka-”

“She’s safe, too. You took her to the clinic, remember? They took her in, and they’re treating her right now. She’ll be fine, Jon.”

“I- I-”

“It’s alright. I’m- I’m going to take care of you.”

He wipes Jon’s tears as they fall. Jon can’t help the way his lip quivers, and the tears won’t stop as he shakes his head, nearly out of Martin’s grasp. “I don’t- I- Martin.”

“It’s alright.”

“They’ll- I burned her.”

“You did no such thing.”

A sob escapes Jon, pitiful and childish. He shakes and clutches his head, fingers twisting cruelty in his hair. “I m-marked h-h-her. She- she’s touched- by both, and I did it, I fed her to them!” 

“Jon.” Martin’s eyes are pitch black and terrifying. With careful, unyielding hands, he captures Jon’s wrists and invades their grip on his hair. When Martin has them both, his fingers slide along the delicate line of the flexor, slip between each wrist, his thumbs moving comfortingly back and forth along Jon’s marred skin. Jon can feel what he’s doing, can see through his tears the invisible strands of power being woven. When Martin pulls away, Jon’s wrists are bound. 

“I’m going to finish undressing you,” Martin says, “and then I’ll put you in a shower, and then you’ll sit in the bath for a while.” 

Jon makes a pitiful sound, caught halfway up his throat, swiftly swallowed and left to die in his roiling stomach. Martin’s thumb hovers over Jon’s lips. “Would you prefer...?” 

After a moment of hesitation, Jon nods. Martin gives him a reassuring smile. When he kisses Jon, he tastes salt, and wipes the tears away with both thumbs before turning away to fiddle with the shower. 

Silently, though he trembles, Jon lets Martin finish taking off his clothes and help him into the shower. The water is lukewarm, but it feels good, and Jon closes his eyes and lets the water slowly seep into his too-long hair. Martin washes him with soap and a rag. He hasn’t bothered to take his clothes off, though he stands fully in the shower with Jon; the shirt protects Sasha’s den, keeps it from getting too wet under the spray, and he’s only wearing loose shorts right now. Jon lowers his arms so he can grip the hem of Martin's damp yellow shirt with both hands as he’s cleaned. 

Too soon, Martin climbs out of the tub and switches the water from shower head to faucet, instructing Jon to sit down. It’s hotter, now, almost scalding as it crashes into the porcelain, but Jon sits and he stays still. The sound of the water is loud in their small bathroom, but it’s good, like white noise pushing at all of Jon’s thoughts, trying to drive them out until there’s nothing left. 

Martin, who has already painstakingly washed Jon’s hair, now takes a brush to it. Jon can’t help but think it’s funny in a sort of idiotic way that his hair should still get so tangled. Having to wrestle with knots every day is so painfully human. 

The water climbs up to Jon’s elbows before Martin turns it off. The sound of sloshing water plays as an undercurrent to the soft, even strokes of the brush pulling through Jon’s hair. Martin uses both hands to part, lift, and untangle it all. Once he’s done, he braids it. Jon has no idea how long it takes. The water, somehow, stays warm throughout. 

He’s nearly asleep by the time Martin kisses his shoulder, tells him it’s time to get out. Jon feels exhaustion weighing down every muscle, and he needs help keeping his balance when he stands and steps out of the tub. Martin has already placed a new towel on the floor, and is prepared with the largest, softest one they own to rub Jon down. 

“Do you want your hands or mouth back?” Martin asks, his voice hardly more than a whisper. Jon shakes his head. He doesn’t trust himself with them, doesn’t like to think of using them right now. He prefers to be like this, anyway. 

Martin nods solemnly, his expression even, but Jon knows. He knows Martin likes it better this way, too. 

When Martin helps him dress, they skip giving him a shirt, so Jon’s hands can stay bound, Instead Martin grabs a robe and throws it into their dryer for ten minutes to warm it up. In the meantime, he sits Jon down on the couch. Tim is there, crouching on the armrest, and he waves at Jon, keeping him company until Martin returns in new, dry clothes, with the robe and something to eat. 

The food isn’t for Jon, of course. He sits still, hands resting in his lap, eyes closed as Martin drapes the robe over his shoulders before sitting down right beside him. Martin chews slowly and thoughtfully on his small handful of fruit -- food he doesn’t need but enjoys anyway. Jon hardly bothers consuming normal food anymore, mostly satisfied with tea these days. For some reason, eating always makes him feel vaguely sick now. 

For two hours, Jon stays on the couch. Sometimes Martin is gone, handling something where Jon can’t see. Sometimes he’s there with Jon, sitting close enough that their bodies are pressed right up against each other. 

Eventually, Martin’s hand -- large, soft, warm -- rests against Jon’s wrists. “I think it’s time to undo it.”

Jon immediately shakes his head. The tremors in his hands, which had subsided over the last few hours, threaten to come back as he jerks beneath Martin’s touch. But Martin’s fingers only hold on tighter, nails gently digging into the yielding flesh between Jon’s knuckles. 

“Jon, what happened wasn’t your fault,” Martin says, all assurances and certainty. There’s not a hint of blame or guilt in his voice. “You were doing something for me. Remember, Jon? This is all… this is all for me, understand? You only did it because I asked you to, and you knew you could trust me, right? So you don’t have to feel bad, because you were only doing what I needed you to do, and you did a brilliant job.”

Jon stares back at him, feeling torn between hope and despair. Martin must see it in his face. The man takes Jon’s cheek in his free hand and sighs. “Jon, dear, you live for me, don’t you?”

He can only nod. The words sound dark and sweet on Martin’s lips. He followed Martin into this with his eyes wide open, understood what had to be done, what would be asked of him. And maybe it’s not truly any better than their lives before the spiders came to Martin, but at least Jon had _known_ this time around what would be coming. He’d had a choice. 

Martin kisses him, and when he pulls away, Jon’s mouth is free to tell him, “Yes, of course.” 

“Then please, put this out of your mind. What’s done is done. Come to bed with me.” 

Jon follows Martin to the bedroom, puts on a shirt, and climbs under the covers with him. Neither of them needs sleep, but it’s still nice to lie down, to be quiet and still in each other’s arms. Martin holds Jon close, letting the smaller man nestle into all the empty spaces left for him. Jon can hear Sasha spinning silk from where he rests his head on Martin’s shoulder. 

“Martin?”

“Yes?”

“Can we…” 

“Spit it out, dear.”

It takes a moment, but eventually he asks, “Can we check on her? Is it… allowed?”

Martin’s quiet for a while. Jon feels a bit stupid for asking. He doesn’t deserve to see her, not after all this, and no doubt she’d hate to see him, the strange man with the terrible eyes and webs in his hair. 

“I think that would be fine,” Martin says, and scratches his nails into Jon’s skin, just at the base of his neck. “I’ll keep tabs, and after things have settled down… Maybe in a year, or two.” 

Jon closes his eyes and nods, tries to let himself be satisfied with that. He’s not sure if it would be the right thing, to see Jericka again. But he feels that old familiar ache to know, to understand. Dozens of questions race through his mind: why had the Lightless Flame targeted Jericka’s uncle? How had the Web known tonight was when her situation at home would become deadly? Had the Mother of Puppets intended to claim the girl, to take hold of her thread, before her uncle became a threat? Or had this been the plan all along, to orchestrate events so that she could be double-marked, then rescued before the flames overtook her? 

Jon deeply dislikes the implications for something like _that_. 

“You’re thinking too much,” Martin whispers into Jon’s hair. “Let me worry about it. Just try to rest, love.” 

And, despite it all, Jon finds it as easy as ever to follow Martin’s instruction. He pushes the thoughts from his mind, focusing on the certainty of his husband’s presence, curled around Jon. He’s safe and protected here. He can rest here. So he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go! Thank you all so much for reading~ I hope you've enjoyed exploring this little AU with me.


End file.
